E. M. Powell (6 page)

Edward’s voice followed them. “I bear witness to this savagery and to your abduction of the Church’s holy anchoress. Mark my words, your sins will find you out.”

The slain Archbishop, the sobbing girl he held prisoner, the monk’s shouted warning. This mission was not a noble one, Palmer didn’t need his battle sense to tell him that. But, noble or not, he would see it through to its end. His payment was on completion, and complete it he would.

CHAPTER 4

Palmer sat in the back of the cart, the thin roof and sides of stained tarpaulin swaying in its steady progress through the night. Dim light shone from the guide lamp hung over the driver’s seat. Le Bret sat up there, hunched forward in his job of keeping them on the icy roadway. The wooden wheels crunched and scraped on the frost-hardened mud road below.

Opposite Palmer, his prisoner huddled away from him on the rough floor planks, head down over her bent knees. His prisoner? Faith, she was a young nun, a small bird of a girl. She didn’t need guarding. He could be sat up next to le Bret, or better still on horseback like the others. Not cooped up like a dunderpate. But Fitzurse had ordered him in here as they’d made their escape from Canterbury, with a look that let no argument.

He couldn’t even use his sword; he’d not got the room in the tight space. He’d pulled his dagger from his belt and held that ready instead. It was likely his own fault he was in here — Fitzurse’s punishment for his poor work in the cathedral. The altar of Our Lady, where the nun and that monk had hid, touching distance away from him. And he’d not found them. If it hadn’t been for this girl and her foolhardy attempt to save Becket, they might have remained hidden. Fitzurse’s mission, whatever that might be turning out to be, could have failed, and the money not been paid out. A quiver of anger passed through him. He, Palmer, would have stayed penniless. And it would have been her fault.

He watched as the nun moved her black rosary beads through her cut and dirty fingers, head bent over her joined hands.
Where are the whore and her bitch?
Fitzurse had asked Becket. Well, it looked like they had the bitch. But at what cost? The King had ordered Becket’s arrest, wanted the Archbishop to account for his meddling. Not have his head taken off his shoulders. Palmer tapped his dagger blade against his knee. No mind. He wasn’t paid to make sense of things; he was paid to do as he was told.

A set of hooves sounded loud beside the cart, and the tarpaulin lifted partway to reveal Fitzurse astride his stallion.

The girl sat bolt upright, face pale in terror.

“Is Sister Theodosia giving any trouble, Palmer?”

“None, my lord,” said Palmer.

“Good.” Fitzurse rapped on the wooden side of the cart. “We have no further need of this. It slows us too much. Even at a hard ride, it’s five days to de Morville’s castle in Knaresborough. De Tracy has ridden ahead to an inn to secure a couple of fresh horses. You’ll ride with Palmer, missy.” He dropped the tarp again.

Theodosia stared set-faced at Palmer.

“That’s me.” He pointed at his chest. “Sir Benedict Palmer.”

Her expression didn’t alter.

“And don’t think that you can struggle and jump off. It’s a long way down from the back of an animal. You’ll likely break your neck. You hear me?”

“Yes.”

The look she gave him matched the one she had given Fitzurse. Good.

The cart ground to a halt, the unseen horses blowing long snorts in relief. Le Bret looked back from the driver’s seat as he secured the brake. “Get her out the back, Palmer.”

Palmer undid the tight-laced opening in the canvas at the rear of their cart. “This way.”

Her hands trembled as she tidied her rosary onto a loop on her belt.

Sticking his dagger back in his belt, he climbed out first, his breath cloudy in the frozen air. The hour would be close on the middle of the night but was well lit by the still-large Yule moon. The low-roofed inn lay silent and dark. The only sign of life was a yawning groom in the cobbled yard at the front, holding a couple of saddled horses on a short rein. De Tracy stood checking them over, his ruddy beard and hair lit by the lantern he held.

As Fitzurse led his stallion to a pile of fresh hay, Palmer turned back to the cart.

Theodosia climbed out and down with the aid of the wooden step. She scanned the yard without looking at him, and he recognized the set of an animal about to bolt.

He circled her right wrist with one hand, and she stiffened under his hold.

“Palmer.”

He glanced around to see Fitzurse leave his horse to its repast and walk over to them.

Fitzurse continued. “A task for you while we get our mounts refreshed. News of Becket will travel fast, and I don’t want us hindered on our way.” He pointed at Theodosia. “With her appearance, the girl could draw attention to us. Take her round the back of the stable block and get rid of her veil and habit. Do what else you like — I don’t care.” Fitzurse returned to his horse’s side.

Her sharp intake of breath gave away her intent to call to the groom for help.

“No, you don’t.” Palmer yanked her to him and choked off her cry. His bandaged hand stifled her screams as he dragged her to where Fitzurse had ordered.

The back of the stable block had no windows. A couple of piles of firewood and the inn’s frozen, heaped midden hid them from sight. She kicked harder at his shins through her long skirts, struggled to break from him.

A sharp heel to his kneecap almost made him lose his hold. “Curse you, lady.” Hand tight on her mouth, he loosed her arm and grabbed for his knife. He raised it to her line of vision, and she froze. “I’m warning you,” he said, his voice low, “you set about de Morville in the cathedral, but don’t think you can try me in the same way. One move, one shout, and I’ll cut you.” He released her to turn to face him. “Take your clothes off.”

Theodosia shook her head as she kept her terrified gaze on his blade. “I have vowed my chastity to God. By taking it from me, you commit mortal sin.”

“Your chastity?” He snorted. “No wonder you fought me so hard. I’m not interested in your chastity, just your clothes. Take them off.”

Still she trembled. “Then you despoil my modesty, another grave sin.”

“Off.” He gestured with his knife. “And hurry up.”

She loosed the leather belt that held her rosary and slipped it from her waist. “At least let me have my rosary. Please.”

“I said to hurry.” Palmer shook his head as he took the belt from her. The softest of good leather, the dark, shiny beads that hung from it made of jet. Holy folk never changed. Disgusted, he threw the belt onto the clumps of yellowed grass, grinding it underfoot onto the frozen churned mud.

Her black wool dress hung loose about her waist. With a stifled sob, she crossed her arms and began to pull it off over her veiled head, for all the world the same way he pulled off his own surcoat. But where he wore chain mail, she wore a cream wool shift that fitted tight to high, firm breasts and a narrow waist.

His groin tightened. Mouth dry, he took the dress from her. Its heavy weight and fine quality put down his urge. “Take off that black skirt too.”

“It’s my undersk — ”

“Take it.” With his blade steady, he cut down hard through the thick black wool he held, strip by strip, to the sound of her sobs. He watched her disrobe further as he flung the cloth on the ground.

She wore another underskirt — cream, this one. That could stay. He snatched the black undergarment from her. “Leave those pale clothes on.” He shredded the skirt as he spoke.

Theodosia watched him, hands to her face, tears streaming from her eyes.

One last thing remained. “Your veil, Sister.”

“You cannot. It is my life.”

He itched to slap her for her whining. “Forcurse it, it’s cloth.” He dropped the last of her torn skirt to his feet and stepped over to her. “On your knees.” He grasped her shoulder with his free hand and forced her to the frozen ground.

“You take my life.”

“It’s only a head cover, not your skull.” Palmer slashed down with his blade, and she caught back a scream. His expert cut went through the close-fitting white wimple that fitted round her face and covered her hair. One hard pull cast it off with her veil. A white linen band secured her hair cap beneath. He made a quick slash and it fell away too. “See? Not a scratch.”

But she gave him no thanks for his skill, scrabbling across the black earth for her torn clothing and raking it into her arms. A long, low keening broke from her as she clutched it to her chest. “These were my modesty, my wedding dress for Christ.” She rocked in open grief. “My humility. My poverty.”

Her prating riled him to his boots. “Poverty, is it?”

The anger in his voice stopped her noise, and she looked up at him in fear.

“You God-botherers, you’re all the same, with your playacting at being poor,” he said. “Your belt, your beads, your precious habit: most folk could work for a lifetime and still not afford them. Weep and wail over a dress if you like. Folk in the real world save their tears for death and disaster. You should be thanking God you’re still in one piece.”

“Have you gone asleep, Palmer?” Fitzurse appeared around the corner of the stable block.

“No, my lord. Just finishing,” said Palmer, blood still quick from his anger.

Fitzurse stopped in front of the huddled Theodosia. He reached down and roughly raked her short, combed-down hair into dark-blonde tangles around her face. He pushed her from him and she stayed crouched, still hanging on to her holy garments.

“Nicely done, Palmer,” said Fitzurse. “She looks common enough now.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Now bring her round; the horses are ready.” Fitzurse left them, calling for his own animal.

Palmer looked down at Theodosia. She clung to her clothes, head bent over them, crying and murmuring into them as if they were a dead child. He gave an impatient click and bent to her.

“No,” she cried out as he yanked the bundle from her and threw it behind him.

He pulled her to her feet and jerked his head toward the yard. “Get moving,” he said. “Our horse is waiting.”

Shoulders down, she went past him, stumbling like she took steps in sleep. With her bowed head, tangled hair, and thin wool clothing, she could be any luckless peasant.

Palmer cared not. What happened to her was no concern of his. His task was to get her to Knaresborough Castle, keep her secure there. And do whatever else Fitzurse asked of him.

***

“We’ll pause here for respite.” Fitzurse’s call came from the front of the group of mounted knights.

“Aye, my lord.” Sir Palmer’s response came loud in Theodosia’s ear, and she flinched.

Seated before him on this wide-backed horse, his sinful hold secure on her, she shared every breath he took, every word he spoke.

Fitzurse had called their halt in the midst of thick, deserted woods. Dead leaves surrounded the bases of bare-branched trees, and not even a bird broke the quiet.

Sir Palmer loosed his unwelcome grip on her waist. He dismounted, as did the other knights, landing with a rustle in the thick leaf cover underfoot.

“That stream’s a sight for sore eyes,” De Tracy’s voice bellowed out, as loud as ever. He made his way over to a quiet brook, icy clear in its mossy bed.

“Horses need it.” The huge le Bret led his animal over to join him.

Sir Palmer held his horse steady and jerked his head for Theodosia to climb off. She dropped awkwardly to the ground, where she struggled to balance on deadened legs.

The knight didn’t acknowledge her difficulty, merely waited for her to straighten.

“We all need it,” came Fitzurse’s clear tone as he and de Morville lined up at the water’s edge too.

Theodosia walked beside Palmer as he led his animal to the brook’s edge.

He nodded at the water. “You need to drink something.”

Theodosia bent low and scooped up a palmful of moss-tasting water. She watched the line of the knights’ reflected faces in the water’s surface while they drank their fill and bantered with each other. Her insides coiled afresh. It was as if they were sin made flesh, as if evil itself had taken bodily forms.

The massive le Bret was like the bear of dead sloth, slow and menacing, with a sword as sharp as claws. The red-bearded one, de Tracy, with his bellow of a voice, always blaspheming, for all the world the lion of arrogance. De Morville, whose castle she was being taken to, his spare frame and flaking, horrid skin a reminder of what death would bring. But his eyes were bright like those of the fox of covetousness, always peering, poking, weighing up what everyone else had. Fitzurse, of the blue, blue eyes. Eyes as dead as a snake’s, and a coldness about him that oozed the poison of evil.

She straightened up and folded her arms across her chest to keep from trembling.

Palmer glanced over at her. “Take some more. You’ll need it.”

She shook her head.

“Please yourself.” He helped himself to more.

And Benedict Palmer, the last one of this horrific menagerie. He would be the unicorn of anger, with his heated temper, his quickness of mood, his angry dismissal of her and her sacred calling.

Her calling. She had hidden herself from the world to keep her soul safe. As her beloved Thomas had said to her, “You do not carry a brittle container in an unruly mob. You have to keep a precious vial safe.”
But she hadn’t kept her soul safe. Her own uncontrolled emotions had swept in, had her run from her safe hiding place to his side. To what end? For him to be hacked to pieces and for her to deliver herself into the hands of those who killed him. She’d taken that vial and shattered it with her own hands, and all through her sinful disobedience.

“Remount, men,” called Fitzurse. “If we press on, we’ll be there before nightfall.”

Theodosia stood by Sir Palmer’s horse, bracing herself for his hand at her leg to boost her up. Here it came again. She grasped for the saddle pommel and pulled herself up. With a swift movement, he was behind her once again, arm tight about her waist.

She offered up yet another confession. Being touched by him, over and over, as she had over these last interminable days brought her sin after repeated sin. Her purity, her holy noble vows, were in shreds from him, as surely as her precious clothes had been from his cruel knife.